


promise me this is real

by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Christianity, Freeform, Gen, Psychosis, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 06:32:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2641643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte/pseuds/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(I promise this is not some "scary psychotic person" fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	promise me this is real

**Author's Note:**

> i will self-project onto tim and no one can stop me
> 
> fun fact! all descriptions of holy delusions here are taken from experience

somewhere the sun is rising and it is warm and beautiful and gold, yellow, orange, red, eggshell clouds cooking on a fresh sky and the sun is a bright dollop of butter on toast.

tim can taste it like blood in his mouth, biting his tongue, losing his teeth, he can taste breakfast – oatmeal, there is something at the bottom of the bowl and he doesn't want to touch it, doesn't want to disturb what's hiding in there, and jay looks at him from across the table.

jay is a million miles away and the table stretches for days on end, and tim gets car sick during their long drives towards the next clue, car sick, that's what he calls it. car sick, when he hears angel wings beating. he doesn't feel hungry. he pushes away the oatmeal. car sick, he can feel the bumps in the road even when he's in another hotel bed. car sick.

somewhere the sun is rising, and jay has two sets of wings that fill the room with feathers and scales and a smell like anesthetic, he shakes, his wings tremble, he asks tim, “can you pass the salt?”

somewhere the sun is rising but here, his forehead is sweaty, his hands dig into the sheets. the room is too hot and too stuffy and the walls breathe in the dusk, the fumes breaking through the window and the floors and tim thinks if he couldn't hear jay's soft snoring on the bed opposite him, he'd float through the ceiling and into the night sky and what would he do then? who'd bring him back? 

it was comforting, once, in a quiet and lonely hospital room, to listen to his brain as it throbbed with a holy fire, the debris of heaven scarring his blessed flesh, but he kept waking up to mud stains on his clothes and doctors he can't remember the faces of but he can remember their worried eyes, their curious fear that poked and prodded and diagnosed him.

tim shared that quiet and lonely hospital room with an omen, and he was a prophet, and they didn't understand each other but he knew not to trust his roommate. not because they weren't human, but because he couldn't decide who was worse – them, the black-eyed omen with an incomprehensible mission, or it, the tall dark one with an incomprehensible purpose.

he has learned not to tell anyone of his divinity, when it swallows him whole and all he can do is flicker between death and heaven, burden and glory, and he has learned to act like he doesn't want to talk to gods and he doesn't see seraphs behind his eyelids.

the black-eyed omen brings with them a stench of sulfur and sacred whispering, and the only words they've ever left him are a command – lead me to the ark. saintly, righteous, stinging, horrifying, beyond belief, and he believes in God down to his bones, believes that the tall dark one is heresy and blasphemy, and the weight of all his faith deprives him of sleep.

in a hotel bed, tim turns over to watch the shadows seethe around the blankets. jay isn't snoring anymore and he has to remind himself to breathe. “are you awake?” he asks.

it's too dark to see anything but holy grandeur and jay, stripped of the wings of tim's dreams, peering at him with pale eyes. “kinda,” jay whispers.

“can you, uh...” he swallows. “can you promise me something?”

jay takes a moment to respond. “yeah, of course.”

“can you promise me this is real?”

somewhere the sun is rising and the morning light blesses the rooftops, the sidewalks, the church towers, and the suburban homes. tim hasn't told jay that some nights he has to stay awake, not just because of paranoia or insomnia but because godly lightning rumbles in his skull and his blood boils with divinity. it's dark outside, and he needs reassurance, he needs a pinch of reality but not too heavy of a dose.

“okay.” jay pauses to yawn. “uh, well. this is real, tim. you're real, and I'm real - I promise you. is that good?”

“yeah...thanks. I needed to hear that.” 

so quietly he almost misses it, he hears jay mumble, “thank you for being real.”


End file.
